Journey
by Lauren BelaLeBeau Fox
Summary: In the aftermath of genetic war, the Witness tries to help Bishop find his family.


That was a time when only the dead could smile. -Akhmatova, 1935> html by Lauren Fox, Summer of 1998   
  
  
  


**Journey**

_[BelaLeBeau][1]_

  
  
  
  


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Disclaimer: X-Men and all related characters belong to Marvel Comics, and are used here for entertainment purposes only; no profit is being made from this. Please do not archive without the permission of the author. Comments are welcome.  
  
Continuity: If the future is yet to be determined, than this is only one of a myriad of possibilities.   


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A man, dressed entirely in black, though he traversed across a vast desert; his transport a horse the color of onyx, with eyes like steel. Behind them, still another dark creature, this a massive coal dog, which followed its master with undying devotion. 

The three lone companions, for they neither could nor would travel with any other, passed through a wasteland, a place which had once known abundant life, but which was now abandoned to face its slow-coming death alone. Highway and house alike crumbled, unable to win the war against the enemy known only as Time. It reminded the man unpleasantly of himself, and so he did not allow his eyes or thoughts to linger upon he decaying landscape. 

He was old; his body withered at last, after a lifetime longer than most men dream of. Hair of auburn had, like stubborn autumn leaves, given away at long last to wintry gray. His hands shook slightly as he grasped the reins, and he could feel exhaustion catching up to him in half the time it might have not too long ago. His age did not make him bitter, though; it was a new experience to be old, and a welcomed experience- it heralded the coming of death. And since long before these ruins he now traveled through had lost their living children, he had been impatiently awaiting the cold touch of the grave. He only wished he could be taken to the next life now, at this moment; that he would not be made to sit and wait in this weakening cage he called a body. 

Now he could see his destination: a city built in the dry bones of its ancestor. He could not remember the name of the place, only brief directions given to him as to how to get there. Like any other city in these unrestful times, there were huge walls surrounding it, well armed and guarded. He sighed in exasperation. They would need identification to let him in, of course. And that was always, at best, an awkward situation. 

He held his head up, proud and defiant, and approached the gates. It was a busy place, with all kinds of cars and people pushing and shoving their way in. Most others were on horseback as well, though no beast was so fine as the old man's stallion. The animals were less expensive to buy and feed than buying any type of transport machine and maintaining it in war times. 

A heavy-set guard approached, his bearded face barely visible behind the mass of armor he wore. "May I see your papers, sir?" he asked. His gloved hand reached forward as the old one reached two bony fingers into his coat and withdrew a battered pair of papers, their edges worn and color yellowed. In a careless motion he threw it at the guard, brushing an errant strand of hair back into its proper place. 

The guard unfolded them, brows arched in a silent statement of disapproval. Then his eyes narrowed. "Who gave you these?" he demanded. 

"De same deputy who signed dem," the elderly man sneered. 

"You are not welcome here," the guard informed him. He handed the papers to another of the guards who had slowly surrounded the ancient traveler. 

"Something we'll both have t'live wit'." 

"Your reasons for coming here?" 

"Are my own." He ignored the deepened frown on the guard's face. "Permission was given to me t'do as I please." 

"Within the law. And for a limited amount of time." The papers, having been passed to each wide-eyed guard in the growing circle, were now handed back to their owner. The old man ignored the stares and rude comments. They were not unusual to him; he dealt with such a reception wherever he went for decades. "Traitor," he heard whispered behind him. "Destroyer." "Enemy." He shrugged them off. 

Finally, the first guard gestured toward the gates. "Enjoy your stay here, Mr. LeBeau," he called out, his words meant to bite. "We will be keeping an eye on you."   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


The Witness, they called him. A name he had vehemently rejected at first, though his opinions were not taken to heart by any who called him by this title. He preferred "LeBeau," and only "LeBeau." Any other names he might have claimed in his youth he willingly forgot, like most any other memory of long ago: his remembrances of childhood; of family; of the horrible event which had ruined any chance of happiness for him for the entirety of his existence. He pushed aside memories of friends, of honor, and of the undying love he had never fully been able to shun. Of all these, he allowed no thought of the deaths he had witnessed, the killer whom he had seen. Which had given the world reason to hate him as they did, to even blame him for the constant state of war the Earth had been plunged into ever since a band of heroes called the X-Men had been murdered. 

Still, he was a functional man, who had not allowed his dark fate to get the better of him. Though the power that had once been in him had faded away, his mind had never deteriorated with the passing of time. He devoted himself to the achievement of no set goal, did not ascribe himself to any "greater cause." He took joy from little, felt satisfaction only in the remembrance of those he had befriended and loved by these new generations. Those he had once called friends had by now become legends. Even he himself had become, in his own right, a legend; a living legend who had become over time a pariah. 

And so he had no friends, no family. The world had changed, but not for the better. What he had left of any love he had ever known was an inanimate object dearer to him than anything else he had ever owned in all his existence: a single, golden-hued woman's glove, kept tucked safely away in a pocket at his side and guarded with the eye of a hawk. He was lonely, and he longed for death. But more- he longed to die by her, near where only he knew the love of his life lay in endless sleep. 

But not yet. There were last things to be done.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


He reached into his pocket again, this time taking out a slip bearing the address of a home. He glanced at the street signs nearby and sighed. It wouldn't be so soon that he would find this place and be able to rest. He did not know where he was, and asking directions from a stranger in these days was as dangerous as it had once been to make eye contact with a New York gang-banger. 

Worse- the streets had all been named ceremonially for heroes long buried. Armstrong Road. Roy Street. Summers Avenue. 

He shivered, mumbled to himself to get over it. A habit he had developed over the years- he'd never been the silent type, and perpetual solitude had caused him to seek pleasant company where he could, including his own. 

The crowd pressed in on him, pushing and shoving with a tumult like the sea's. The horse grew nervous, and the dog snarled maliciously a warning to anyone who came too close to his master. "Put a muzzle on yer mutt!" someone yelled at the old man, along with a stream of expletives which were promptly ignored. 

Smells and sounds spilled out upon the people from the shops and houses which packed the sides of the narrow street. It was all unfamiliar, the creations of a world he had lost contact with. If it was music he heard, he certainly didn't recognize it as such. There were guards everywhere, gigantic guns slung over their own massive shoulders, a glint of viciousness in their eyes, More than one suspicious glance was cast upon the elderly man. He passed them by, not allowing himself to look, nor to be, disturbed. 

Churchill Street. A look to the paper confirmed that this was what he wanted. He grunted his approval- it hadn't taken him half as long as he had expected. The house he sought was a run-down place, but not quite as dirty or indigent as its neighbors. The horse was put in a public holding pen; good money was spent to keep it safe and well fed. The old man pulled his coat straight, ran fingers through his graying hair, and rapped on the door. 

"I'm coming!" he heard, almost instantly; they had been expecting him. There was a great ruckus, loud whispering and a baby's loud complaints. The door opened, an enormously tall black woman in the doorway. She smiled shyly. "Mr. LeBeau?" As though there was the possibility it was someone else. 

He nodded. "And you are..." 

"Tabitha," she said. 

"Yes, Tabitha. A pleasure to meet you." He took her hand and kissed it lightly- an archaic custom he had established with Tabitha's family long, long ago by her ancestor's deathbed. She smiled, pleased, and gestured inside. 

"Please come in, sir." 

He did, the dog following. The woman led him into a tiny living room, asking him to make himself comfortable on a deteriorating couch which appeared to be older even than the old man. He sat, as the woman's family- all of three people- gathered into the room. 

"Mr. LeBeau, this is my sister, Jean; my son, Maximilian. And this," she took a baby from Jean's arms, "is Sara." 

He greeted them each politely, exchanging small talk for a good deal more time than he would have liked to. But his attention was drawn to the boy: a sturdy child, standing tall and with his chin proudly set to the air. He hadn't inherited the characteristic blue eyes of the Munroes. But he was as well built and handsome as any other of Ororo's descendants. 

LeBeau knew him in an instant. Not as Maximilian Munroe, but by another name, a name never written in the pages of history. The boy looked uncomfortable under the old man's gaze, but did not shy from it. 

"I won't be stayin' long," LeBeau said. "But if dere is anythin' any of you need from me, ask." 

"Sir," Tabitha's sister spoke up, obviously to the dismay of the first woman, "as you can see, we are desperately poor. We need..." 

"Jean!" Tabitha whispered sharply, as though the old man could not hear. 

LeBeau smiled. "Money," he finished. "Dat is no problem. An' Tabitha, don't be shy 'bout askin' me for anythin'. You an' your family... you're special to me." 

Tabitha nodded, but didn't seem convinced. "You've done good things for my family always, sir. But... we've asked so much of you already..." 

"As I said, money is no problem." 

Tabitha abruptly turned to her sister and handed the baby back to her, mumbling indistinctly of "nap time." She patted her son on the head, and then directed him away, as well. 

Then she sat, directly across from him, nervously chewing at her lower lip. "Sir... Jean may ask for money, and I will admit that we need it. But, sir, I..." she paused, blinking, and for a moment the old man thought she might cry. But no tear leaked from her eye. She straightened her back confidently. "Sir, I've grown ill. The doctors can't do anything, not even the best we could afford- and sir, before this, we were not so poor as to raise my children in this place." She spat the last word out abhorrently. "We could have afforded the best, then. But misfortune has troubled my family from the start." 

The old man's brow furrowed in thought forehead now a tangle of wrinkles. "I know nothing of medicine, an' if I were to ask any doctor, dey would likely run from me..." 

"Sir, I am going to die. I know this. I have made my peace with it. There is nothing I can do, even with your help. And so it is not money or doctors that I ask for. I only ask you... sir, I have no husband, he died in battle a year ago. Jean has been called away to the military now, and when I am gone, there will be no one left to care for the children." 

He nodded sympathetically, long hair falling into his eyes yet again. "You want me to take dem to your cousin, so he can care f'r dem," he said. "You want dem to be wit' dere family." She nodded. 

He had kept rough tabs on every member of the family; he'd promised Ororo he would keep them all safe and happy, to do for them all that was in his ability. But as the fighting between human and mutant, and even among mutants alone, blazed again after a short stalemate of tenuous peace, the Witness had not been able to travel much, and when he did, he was often turned away at borders. His burning eyes, still an extraordinary sight even among the ever-growing population of mutants, marked him for life; the stories connected with those eyes, true or not, had turned everyone away from him. Even members of the Munroe family had turned their backs on him. Only three families within the clan would accept his offer of help in times of need now. He had expected this, was even surprised there were those left who could stand to look upon him. Thus it was that he had come to traveling to this place, Tabitha's home- cast away by her relatives, he had decided to meet this small pocket of Munroes who had migrated far to the western part of what had once been known as America. And how he knew their relatives. 

"Warren will care for them, be like a father, and raise them properly. There would be advantages to sending them away even if I had not grown sick." And now she did begin to cry, her hands to her face. But she kept her voice steady as unyielding iron. "I have no money, and I work all day to put food on the table, to pay the rent. I can't pay for them to go to school, and so they stay at home alone. Sometimes Jean can help, but not always. I'm near useless to them." 

LeBeau cleared his throat awkwardly, and considered for a moment putting an arm around her for comfort, but then pushed the thought away. She might not tolerate that. He might make it worse for her that she sought comfort from the one whose name was synonymous with Satan's. If not worse. "I'm sure you've been a good Momma for dem," he offered. 

She sniffed, wiping her eyes on the hem of her muslin sleeve, and then folding her arms in her lap once again. "I apologize for that," she said, collected, 

He shrugged. "No need for apology." 

"Will you do this for me, then, sir? Would you take my children and care for them until they are safe with my family?" 

"Until den, chere," he said softly, "dey will be my family as well." And then, startled with his own familiarity, he started to stutter his own apology. 

It was her turn to shrug. "Certainly no apology is needed. If anything, this is what I wanted."   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


A man, dressed entirely in black, though he traversed across a vast desert; his transport a horse the color of onyx, with eyes like steel. Behind them, still another dark creature, this a massive coal dog, which followed its master with undying devotion. And still behind that another horse, this one a old mare, carrying a large boy and the laughing baby in his arms. 

LeBeau glanced behind him, a quick look which assured him of the well being of both children. Maximilian had been silent, which the old man had expected. His mother's death didn't seem to have had any effect on him; he was as silent as the day the Witness had met him. 

After Tabitha had made her request, LeBeau had visited often as he could stand passing the guards at the gate, but he had stayed in a tiny town nearby, where the people were too happy to have money to ask for any type of identification, or even to inquire as far as a name. Pulling a hood over his head had been enough there, and he had stayed to himself. 

And Tabitha had died not long after. Her funeral was quick; people in these times did not make too much of death, but rather tried to ignore it. Jean had paid her respects and then tearfully gone off to fight this war which had already claimed a million lives, and leaving two children with an ancient old man, who was seen by many as Evil incarnate. 

"Max?" The old man shouted out, in a vague attempt to start some type of conversation. Not for his sake- he had traveled the world over quite alone- but for the sake of the child. 

The boy paused, as if unsure the man was speaking to him. "Yes, sir?" 

LeBeau shook his head. The boy was as uniform now as he would be even after his training in the XSE. "How ya doin'?" 

"Well, sir." 

"An' Sara?" 

"Also doing well, sir." 

"Hungry?" 

"No, sir." 

He scratched his head, wondering what else there was to say. "So, Max. Tell me 'bout yourself," he said, finally. A last resort. 

"What would you like to know, sir?" 

"What would you like t'be when you grow up?" He couldn't help himself. He had to ask that. 

"A soldier, sir." 

"Ah! A soldier." He nodded, as if he had not known. "An honorable profession." 

"Very, sir." This time as the boy answered, the old man detected a faint resentment, something ill-willed in the child's speech. 

"Your father was a soldier, was he not?" 

"He was, sir. An excellent soldier." 

"I'm sure he was." There was another long pause, and finally LeBeau resigned to silence. And so it was the boy who spoke next, this time voluntarily. 

"Sir?" 

"Yes?" 

"How far will we travel before nightfall, sir?" 

"We'll travel 'til we come to de next town. Den we'll find somewhere t'spend de night. You all right?" 

"I am fine, sir." Again, a coldness to the boy's voice. 

They went on, quiet as before, over the desert. Like the wasteland before, this place was barren, an unknown land which might once have been busy with some wild activity of snake or bird, but which was now dead, uninteresting, and uninterested. In the distance there were purple clouds, darker even than the storm's, which kept their constant pace towards the travelers. LeBeau looked to a compass, noted their direction- southeast- and then pulled a map from a saddle bag. 

A small town which called itself Forgeville would be their stop, he saw with some dismay. It was the closest, and he guessed that Max was eager to stop. He sighed, and stuffed the map back into the pouch roughly. He hated going to places named for X-Men. Abhorred it. It made him think too much, remember too much. And Max's presence was already causing unbidden memories to appear and vanish like phantoms in the old man's head. 

"We'll be going to Forgeville," he informed Max, already knowing the response. 

"Yes, sir." 

He sighed, and retired to his thoughts as the horses took them on to the next small pocket of civilization in a land which had never been fully tamed.   
  
  
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They came onto Forgeville within two hours of their brief conversation. A tiny place, where houses were truly oversized tents with withering gardens dug next to them. The outhouse had come back into vogue, LeBeau noticed with a bitter smile. 

Of the few real buildings, which seemed to be made of the debris of a now-gone city, there was a general store of sorts, some type of recreational/meetings hall, what might have been some kind of school, and a "hotel," which was really no more than several tents all put together. These and a stable made up the most permanent section of the town. 

"Take Sara an' get us a room," LeBeau told the boy as they both dismounted. "Preferably de best... room... dere is." He eyed the place dubiously, nose wrinkled slightly in disgust. Outcast or no, he tended to stay in better places than these. He would much rather have rested in a cave or some place in the woods nearby, but it was chillingly cold, and he feared for the baby's health. 

"Yes, sir," the boy said, and spun about on his heel toward the door. 

The old man watched him go, not letting his eyes off of the child until the door was shut safely behind him. He tugged the horses' reins urgently, puling them toward the stable and paying an all-too generous amount of money to a half-drunk young fellow who had been drinking in the hay to care for the animals. He did not bother with any conversation or further attention to the horses. If any harm was to come to either of those children, he wouldn't have been able to forgive himself- not that he had forgiven himself of much in this life, anyway- and this was no place he would trust with children. Even if one of those children were destined to be an X-Man. 

The "hotel" was also a bar and restaurant of sorts. Where these people obtained any type of edible substance to put upon the table, LeBeau didn't know, and didn't want to guess. Max had paid for a room, or, more truthfully, a large tent, and had also taken the liberty of paying for food for himself and his sister. He had made his way to a corner of the room, and was spooning food into Sara's open mouth when the old man entered. 

"I didn't know what you would want, sir," the boy told him. 

He shrugged, went to the counter, and bought food. As he had suspected, they asked for no identification here, and cast curious instead of suspicious glances at him as he made his way back to the table. There were few people there, a few burly men and not much less burly women. The owner of the establishment, a lady dressed in unattractive tight clothing and bangles, was loud and overly talkative, a trait seemingly inherent in all the customers of the establishment. 

"Nice place," the old man whispered. The boy merely nodded, disinterested. LeBeau turned back to his food, some type of liquidy hash slopped into a dingy bowl. He contemplated going back out to the horses and getting his food bags, filled mostly with dried fruit and meat, but decided he'd rather stay here. He did not like the looks of the other patrons. 

"Do you travel much?" he tried again. 

"No, sir." 

"Have you ever been away from your home town?" 

"We did not live in New Phoenix all our lives, sir," he said. 

New Phoenix, the old man thought. So that was what that place had been called. "Where did you live before dat, den?" 

"We lived by Lion's Den, sir." 

"Nevada? Dat is where you were born?" He couldn't see his old teammate being from Nevada. Then again, he'd never seemed like he belonged to any one place at all. 

"Nevada, sir?" 

He chided himself mentally. Nevada didn't exist anymore. None of the states did. "An' your sister?" 

"She was born in New Phoenix, sir." 

"Your mother and father?" 

"Both from Lion's Den, sir." 

"Why did you move to New Phoenix?" 

"It was less expensive to live there than Lion's Den, sir. And my father had been called away." 

"T'serve in de military." 

"Yes, sir." 

The old man sighed, and watched the boy as he finished feeding Sara, put the spoon down, and wiped her dirty mouth with a paper napkin. He was beginning to understand Max, now. Or, more accurately, to understand Bishop. Being raised an orphan, given the charge of a baby when he was still so young, would not be easy for him. And the loss of a proud father to war, a strong mother to sickness... 

Still, the feeling that the boy hated him, or at least resented being forced to travel with the Witness, was strong enough that it dashed nearly all hope to ever have any kind of meaningful discussion with him. It was not going to be a pleasant trip. 

"I am sorry that you lost dem, Max," the old man attempted, softly. 

The boy tensed. "Thank you, sir," he said, coldly. LeBeau nodded. 

The meal was finished in an accustomed silence. The others in the room were not much rowdier, hanging back against the wall in small clumps to guzzle down more alcohol. Still, as quiet as it was, the old man's eyes never stopped searching each table, each corner for signs of trouble. 

He let his spoon clang into the bowl and pushed it aside, leaning back in his chair, regarding the eyes which flittered up at him when they assumed the old man could not see. He didn't bother to nod, to acknowledge them by anything but a cold stare, which conveyed no emotion whatsoever. Very effective, he had found long ago, with fiery eyes like his. 

"Do you know which 'room's' ours?" he asked the boy. 

"Yes, sir. Through that left door, and to the left. The green tent, sir." 

The old man snorted indignantly, and threw some money on the table. "Let's go, den." 

"Yes, sir." 

The 'room' was cold, desperately cold in the chill of the desert night. There were a few worn blankets thrown onto cots, though pillows were absent. The old man looked once, and groaned inwardly. "We're goin' t'need more blankets den dat," he said. 

"I think so, sir." 

"Come wit' me to de stables, den. Bring your sister." 

They trudged out once more. Max cuddled the baby close to him, wrapping his cloak around her. The stable was empty, save for a small collection of horses, and most likely a colony of rats. "An' I paid dem extra t'stay wit' de horses!" LeBeau snarled. "Get your t'ings. We won't be keepin' dem out here tonight." 

"Yes, sir." This time, as the boy spoke, there was as much hatred in his face as there was his voice. He set his sister down and pulled violently on the strings of his saddle bags. 

LeBeau looked at him. "What is wrong wit' you, boy?" 

Max glanced up at him, lip curled. "Sir," he said, harshly, "I do not enjoy your conversation. And while in politeness I tolerate your words, I would much rather not speak with you, unless it is necessary." 

"You tolerate me, hmm?" The old man's eyebrow arched. "And why, may I ask, d'you find my company so disagreeable?" 

He stopped fumbling with his bags and stood straight, hands balled into fists at his sides. "Sir, you are the Witness. And while I thank you for your kindness to my family, you are still the enemy of peace, the one who betrayed Xavier. And that cannot be forgiven so easily." 

The boy's bite was worse than he had even meant. "What of it?" the old man snapped. "I have no interest in your lil' problems wit' honor and dignity. If you are ashamed to be seen wit' de Witness, den you will be pleased t'know dat dis trip will not take much more dan a month, if dat. An' I will not attempt to speak t'you again in dat time." His grasp on the saddle bags tightened. If he had been younger, and stronger, those bags might have glowed faintly with his own fiery energy, but he could not in these days summon up that power with his whole mind and will bent fully on the task. "It is my job to see you safely in de arms o' your family, an' I won't let you out o' my sight until dat happens. So you'll have t' put up wit' me until den..." 

"You," the boy screamed suddenly, "are the enemy of everything the X-Men ever worked for! You betrayed them, you broke them apart. It was because of you that my father died, you started this stupid war!" 

LeBeau grabbed the boy by the collar and, with extraordinary strength neither of them had expected the old man had, shoved the boy into the wall. "I am not responsible for dis!" he yelled. "I may have betrayed dem- but I didn't know what I was doin'! I had no intention o' killin' anyone- an' if I had known I woulda started a whole 'nother world war..." 

The boy looked in the old man's eyes, his lip quivering into a sneer. "What would you have done?" he whispered. 

The old man dropped him, and turned away. "I would have ended this useless life long ago," he spat, walking away. "An' I'll tell you another t'ing- de only reason I'm not gonna leave you here in de desert t'make your own way t'your cousin's is dat I promised your mother you'd be safe. Even so," he turned again to wag a finger at the boy, "I'm sorely tempted." 

"You couldn't if you tried," Max yelled. "You're just a tired old man. Couldn't hurt me if..." Before he could finish his sentence, the boy was on the ground, his arms pinned to his side, the sharp steel of a knife at his throat. 

"Perhaps I am a tired old man, pup," LeBeau said, "but I'm not anyone t'be taken lightly." He withdrew the knife, and put it into his boot. "Remember dat."   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


Months of travel, and then... forest. Miles and miles of it, beautiful and green. Trees, animals of all species, and not a human in sight. 

But in LeBeau's eyes, perhaps the ugliest of all the sights this changing world had to offer. While Max gaped at the wildlife, the old man kept his eyes straight, not looking to left or right, or up at the sky. 

This was no wonderland, no place of peace as it had once been long ago. The trees were twisted now, in nightmarish figured so gnarled and covered with rot that even a man raised in the swamps of the southern lands could find no enjoyment in looking at them. Mutated grasses and shrubs were killing nearly everything off, so fast and thick they grew, and the flowers stank of decay and were poisonous to the touch. The road they traveled on was no more than a path chopped roughly through the landscape, and was not paved or even maintained enough to keep the trial fully visible all throughout the woods. 

And the living animals had changed horrifically as well; mutations had not increased only in mankind and the plants. The only creatures LeBeau recognized were mosquitoes and slugs, gigantic varieties which were far, far bigger than any from years past. Anything else was new, though he suspected his limited knowledge of forest birds and beasts might have contributed to this. 

He looked back at the children quickly. Since Maximilian had shared his feelings to him, the old man had been silent, speaking only when it was necessary to give instructions. He did not bother to tell the boy anything of their direction, how long it would take to arrive anywhere, if they would stop or not for supplies soon. There was no morning greeting, and if the boy did not want to eat, so be it. The Witness would not be responsible. The old man would only make sure that both children got to their uncle safely, and in as little time as possible. 

It was not so easy, especially with the baby. Her every move, every sound sent the old man whirling into a sea of emotion: he felt joy, as she made her first step and slowly learned to walk; he felt regret, when he saw Max cradling the child in his arms; and he felt a dismal grief that he had never and would never have anyone like Sara to call his own. He had wanted to hold her, even to take her on his own horse for part of the journey, but was painfully aware that Max would not allow it. 

So his horse continued without the burden of a baby. And they went on in silence. 

Night began to drift in from the East, heralded by cold wind. The old man drew his cloak farther around himself, shivering. Getting old, he decided, was like catching a cold and holding onto it with a rigor mortis grip, whether you wanted it or attempted- uselessly- to defy it. The baby coughed, and he spun around to look. She was snuggled deep into her brother's coat, her chubby fingers wrapped around his collar. 

"Is she all right?" LeBeau demanded, coldly. 

"Yes, sir." Their confrontation had left the boy with a touch more respect for his elder. Or at least more fear. 

"Does she need anything?" 

"No, sir." 

"If she does, you will tell me immediately." He turned back, and urged his horse faster. The dog was lagging behind, he noticed, and the steed wasn't going at even his usual pace. They would need a day to rest before going on, LeBeau thought, irritated. 

A light in the darkness ahead signaled some kind of civilization, but of what type, the old man did not know. "Stay here!" he ordered, and dismounted. He thrust the reigns into Max's hand and walked silently in the direction of the light. 

Years had not affected his abilities as a thief, at least. He was as silent as he had been at the height of his career, even in the woods. He kept away from what trees he could, and watched the woods around him carefully for lookouts. 

But not carefully enough. 

"Stay where you are!" A rough female voice shouted out. The old man didn't move, breathing a prayer that the boy would not follow. "Hands in the air!" 

"I mean no harm t'you!" He said, mildly. 

"That's not the issue." The woman had come up behind him, placing a knife at his throat. "It's whether I mean to harm _you_." 

"Why would you want t'harm an old man lost in de woods, chere?" He asked, innocently. 

"Depends on the old man, and if he's really lost." She brought the knife higher, and he felt her face close to his. She whispered, almost inaudibly, into his ear. "Who are you? You have the eyes of the Witness." 

"And if I was de Witness?" 

"Then there's nothing I would have against you." 

"Den you are alone in all de world." 

"As are you." She withdrew the knife. "But you bring others here. Children." 

He tensed, even after the threat of a weapon had been taken away. "Stay away from dem." 

"I'm only being nosy. As I said, I have nothing against you. If anything, I revere you." 

"Curious." 

"I can see how it would be." She moved slowly in front of him, an olive-skinned woman dressed for battle. He allowed his eyes a moment to adjust to the light, and then looked over her intensely. "Hounded out from place to place. Hated and feared by the very ones you once tried to protect. Though you've stopped that now, haven't you?" 

"Who are you?" 

"Carly Dupree," she said, holding out a hand. He didn't touch it. "I belong to a certain... organization... who has a rather liberal take on history. At least, in society's eyes, it would be liberal." 

"Oh? And why is dat?" 

"We believe that the X-man known as Gambit was not responsible for the war. We believe he did not know the X-Men at the time he 'betrayed' them, and that he joined their team for the purpose of making up for past sins. Quite outlandish, wouldn't you think?" 

"Many would t'ink dat." 

"Most would think that." 

"And?" 

She nodded toward the children's direction. "They are Munroes." 

"Dey are," he affirmed, slowly. 

"A covenant was established between their family and yours, that you would protect them for as long as you lived, to the best of your ability. A promise made as the X-Man known as Storm died." 

He nodded. "What do you want from me?" 

"There is a group of us, as I said. Mutants and flatscans alike, who do not believe you betrayed the X-Men. People who are willing to follow you..." 

He put his hand up at that, shielding himself from her words. "No." 

She paused, then nodded. "I understand." 

"How did you find me?" 

"Actually, I... wasn't planning to meet you here. I was traveling to New Phoenix, where they said you had gone last. I was going to try and find you there. But..." 

"Dey told you I went to New Phoenix? Who's "dey," and how did dey know?" 

She sighed. "Maybe you should bring the children to the fire. They'd be warmer there. And I'm not going to hurt them." He looked at her, and then the woods, suspiciously. "Scout's honor," she added, hand to her heart. 

He called to the dog first, which came bounding after the woman. Then Max came, his sister buried deep into his cloak. 

"This is... Dupree," LeBeau introduced. "Go by the fire." 

They sat in a circle around the blazing inferno the woman had created. She had been cooking something, but it had burnt, and was thrown away. Max said nothing, but tended to the baby with the ever-vigilant care of a father. LeBeau offered a share of the group's rations to the woman, who added them to some type of stew she had in a mammoth thermos. It tasted like salad. Watered-down, old, wilted salad which had been put in a blender and forgotten for several hours. But the taste did not effect any of them. Dupree had quickly started speaking of her friends. And of Gambit. 

"As I said, we're made up of humans and mutants. Which includes psi of various types. That and the masses of technology we were able to... acquire after the war was how we found you. Not that it was easy, mind you. It took us full on a year to figure out you were headed west. 

"And as for what we believe? We're cynics, of sorts. The types who don't believe everything the books say. At least, post-war history books, which were all written by prejudiced, folklore reading fools trying to make an extra penny. All of what they have to say about the X-Men and Xavier is sensationalized. And all of that society believes is just as off the wall." 

"An' so how can you believe what you think is de absolute truth?" LeBeau cut in. 

"Because what we have discovered in our research had nothing to do with those post-war writings. Everything we've studied comes from long before. Comes from the days when the X-Men themselves walked Earth. 

"You know of a man called Nathaniel Essex, 'Sinister.' Today, he is known as a villain of all villains, a sick, demented man who is, in many a story believed even in religious contexts, a demon sent by Satan to create an evil race. A fictional twist on a dark reality. In truth, Sinister is dead, killed by a far worse being known as Apocalypse during the war. But none of that was ever integrated into the stories. 

"They say that Sinister's greatest and most evil creation was a beautiful but deadly being known as Remy LeBeau, which he planted into the X-Men to destroy them. Which he did, over time. Again, this is fiction. But you know that, of course." 

LeBeau shrugged. "I've heard it all enough times not t'be bothered any more." 

"I'll bet. But you see, we discovered the truth, as written down by Nathaniel Essex, and as written by Charles Xavier himself. Logs which both of them wrote, on a nearly daily basis, of what each did, what each found, what each knew. From those documents, the real history can be found." She grinned. "You look surprised." 

LeBeau's eyes were wide. "You found... de Professor's logs?" 

"And Sinister's," she nodded. "The entire history of the X-Men is at our fingertips. And the history of the Witness. How you attempted to help the X-Men, but were nearly killed on the field, unable to help as your teammates... died. I'm sorry," she said, softly, her demeanor changing as though she had only just thought of something. "This must hurt you to hear this." 

"It is not'ing new." 

"But covered up, perhaps? Buried in memories?" 

"As I said, it is not'ing new." He adjusted his cloak. "Munroe, take your sister and go to sleep." 

"Yes, sir," the boy said, but his voice had lost its coldness. There was, instead, a confusion there. He took the baby a few feet away and settled down into his sleeping gear, and then was silent. 

"The Munroe boy," Dupree whispered. "He's..." 

"Yes. But say not'ing." 

"It must be hard." 

"It is." 

"Why do you have him?" 

"His parents are dead. I'm takin' him to his cousin in de east. As you said before, I take care o' his family de best I can." 

"Yes, but did you know that he would be born from the Munroes?" 

The Witness sighed. "Perhaps. I have never known for certain." 

"There is much said by both Xavier and Essex about him. And his sister. And you." 

"I'd imagine dere is." 

"That is why we want you. To learn more from you, so that perhaps we can somehow make a difference as the X-Men did. There are those who are trying to do just that, but they never succeed. They do not know much about the team of heroes they try to follow. We could discover so much just discussing the past with you! Besides the fact that we want to meet the last living student of Xavier, that is." 

He shook his head. "I haven't got any reason to look into de past. It's not pleasant, Dupree." 

"I know. I don't like looking at mine so much, either, and I've not lived nearly the life you have. But you have to understand, whatever it is you could tell us would make us so much stronger! Would help us to fix this crazy planet up." 

"You say dat like I was de answer t'all your problems." 

"You practically are, Remy." 

He winced. "Don't call me dat." 

"Why? It is your name." 

"No. Not anymore. Gambit is dead, cherie. He died wit' de X-men long ago." 

"Died with Rogue." 

He hung his head, saying nothing for a quiescent pause. "_Touche_," he breathed. 

"Then the remnant of Gambit that is left in the Witness is what we have interest in. His memories." 

"T'ings dat have been locked up for years." 

"And which can only help us and yourself by being shared." 

"De children are my first priority." 

"And after they have been taken safely to their uncle?" 

He hesitated again. "I have no other plans..." 

Her eyes lit up. "Then you will come with me?" 

He shrugged. "'less I get a reason not to." 

She leaned back, pleased, watching him with a grin which faded into a gentle, venerating smile. "You have been my hero for years now," she murmured. "Your story is the only mystery, the only romance, the only adventure I have read and come to remember so clearly. Every bitter and joyful twist of your young life written by two outsiders in their own light- the good of Xavier explaining your inner righteousness, the evil of Essex detailing your power and darkness. And then, when they died, you became an obscure mystery, and fairy tales in which you were the most immoral of demons were created." 

"Poetic," he grumbled. 

"English major before the war. But what I say is true, LeBeau. Your story has captivated all of us. You are something we would all aspire to be..." 

"Den you are all fools! I am no hero, no saint, no knight-in-shinning-armor. I'm not even a demon created t'wreak havoc upon people who _are_ good. I'm only an ol' man now, and was only a wretched t'ief when I was young. I haven't gotten any better, despite all I've done to change. I'm not fit t'be a hero to anyone. You should be praising Summers or someone else. " 

"But that's just it! You've tried unendingly to be someone better! Is that not what real people should seek in a hero?" He did not answer. She watched him, her eyes moving rapidly over his face, searching for something. But she did not find it, and turned away. "Where are we taking the boy?" 

"Newer Haven," he said. 

"Newer Haven? Never heard of it." 

"Dere was a school dere once..." he shook his head and lay back on his bedroll. "T'ings change. Usually f'r de worse. Sometimes f'r de better." 

"How far is this place?" 

"Somethin' like a hundred miles from here." 

"That is..." 

"Wit' de baby? Five days of travel. We take it slow. She gettin' a cold. An' add one day to dat to rest de horses." 

"Six days?" She whistled. "And to think, I hadn't thought I'd catch up with you for another six weeks." 

"Musta been fate," he groused, and closed his eyes. 

"Musta been." 

Dupree was asleep in moments. He listened to her quiet breathing, and then Max. He was sure the boy had listened to all this. So be it. Maybe it would help things for the next four days. 

Sleep would not come to him so fast, however. And when it claimed him at last, it was a troubled, nightmare-ridden repose which wasn't beneficial in the least.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


A man, dressed entirely in black, as he traversed through a great forest; his transport a horse the color of onyx, with eyes like steel. Behind them, still another dark creature, this a massive coal dog, which followed its master with undying devotion. And still behind that two other horses, one an old mare, carrying a large boy and the laughing baby in his arms, and the other a steady bay, upon which rode a tall woman armed to the teeth. 

They had traveled for miles upon miles for days, no one speaking. Dupree had been talkative at first, eager to discuss history with the Witness and the West with Max, who would, one day, be a hero. But the same spirit of silence which had been created between the old man and young boy had been contagious, and she soon began to stare straight ahead, her eyes glazed over as she pondered her own thoughts alone. 

On the second day, there had been a small farm which offered, for a large sum of money, a place to stay in a barn and warmed milk for the baby. Dupree made arrangements with the family, telling them that she was traveling with her ancient father and distant relations to the coast. No further questions were asked. The group was not asked to come inside for dinner, and were left to their own in the barn. It saved them from any possible rejection of the Witness, for which he was quietly thankful. They rested well, and the horses faired better there than in any community stalls. The food was fresh and wholesome, the water good enough even for the people to drink. 

But the other three days had been not so lucky. It grew colder as they climbed up to a higher elevation, until the ground around them as they woke in the morning was covered with frost. The baby became LeBeau's primary concern, and he had stolen a blanket from the farmer- Dupree had told Max that she bought it, to save him from unnecessary trouble. 

And on their day of rest before any of this traveling, Max's horse had eaten the leaves from an unknown tree, had become sick, and nearly died within an hour. After it had coughed up blood and nearly broken its neck trying to run away, the Witness had considered destroying it. But as quickly as the sickness came, it seemed to leave in the same speed. By mid afternoon, the horse was fine, eating heartily whatever it was the boy gave him, and even trotting eagerly around the campsite. 

"Never seen anything like that before," Dupree said. She had insisted Max use her own horse, and that she ride on the mare. But there were no further problems with that horse, or the others. 

"Tell your uncle t'sell it when we get to Newer Haven," LeBeau told Max. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Talkative, isn't he?" Dupree commented. 

"Talkative as a rabbit." 

"Because of his parents?" she whispered aside to the old man. 

"Because o' dat, an' because o' me." 

She looked back at the boy skeptically. "I see. It makes sense... that he went back for you..." 

"His reasoning comes from experiences he don't understand yet. Smart as he is, he's still young. Very young." 

She said no more, and neither did he. They traveled on again, in silence.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


And now before this group, a sign, or more, a post upon which arrows pointed every which way in the direction of a city or town. 

"Newer Haven is... on that trail," Dupree said, squinting at one of the smaller arrows. "Fifteen miles, it says." 

"Fifteen miles," the old man repeated. "We almost dere." 

There was a tremendous sound then, emanating from a narrow dirt road which led slightly south of Newer Haven's trail. LeBeau grabbed the boy's reigns and pulled his horse aside, standing protectively in front of him. Dupree did the same. 

A motorbike flew past, engines roaring, the noise so deafening the baby screamed her disapproval. The rider was a man dressed in outlandish clothes so bright a blind man could have seen him coming. He passed the small group so quickly that he seemed not even to notice them. 

Behind him came more of the same, though diverse- people of all ages upon all types of machines, even a few panicked horses. They, too, went by so fast that they seemed not to have noticed the four by the side of the road. 

Except one young man, who nearly fell off his bike as he turned to stop before the little group. "Where you headed?" he yelled over the clamor. 

"Newer Haven," shouted Dupree. 

He shook his head urgently. "Don't go there. Turn around, get away from here as fast as you can! Especially with your children!" 

"Why? What happened?" 

The man said something, but his words were caught and drowned by an ancient truck firing past. He waved wildly in the direction he had come. "Rebels! Taking over back there, looting the city!" 

"What?!" 

He shrugged, and then kicked his engine up again. "Get yourself and your family out of here, Miss!" And he became part of the exodus speeding past them. 

"Rebels?" LeBeau yelled to Dupree. 

"But there was a treaty in the works..." She shook her head. "I don't get it. But the children can't..." 

"My family, ma'am!" Max spoke up. "They might be alive, and need help!" He looked from Dupree to LeBeau, desperately. 

The woman looked to the Witness questioningly. The old man met her gaze, his mind racing. "Max, stay here. Or better yet, go into de woods an' hide ya sister. Dupree and I'll find your family. What street are dey on?" 

"Darkholme. But sir! They are _my_ family..." 

"And dey wouldn't want you dead, boy! Get goin', and don't go near de city. We'll be back. Watch f'r us." He turned his horse toward Newer Haven, watching resolutely as Max turned his own horse into the woods, and, slowly, disappeared into the foliage, the dog following him at its master's command. The moment he was out of their sight, the adults plunged into the woods, knowing the road would be impossible to travel on, and hastened their horses on toward the city.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


The smoke of Newer Haven was visible for miles, black and menacing as a coming storm; but this storm had already descended upon the city in the form of terrorist rebels. 

As they came nearer to the destruction, they could see quite plainly that Newer Haven was no more. The ancient stone buildings which had been the pride and joy of the eastern region of the continent had once towered over forest and city- now they lay in huge piles of ruin nearly as tall as the buildings themselves had once been. 

The walls which had surrounded it were gone, and the guards had all swarmed into the center where came the sounds of battle: the crack of gunfire, the screams of dying soldiers. 

Dupree unslung a gigantic plasma gun she had kept on her back through their travels, and tossed it to the Witness. "You may need that," she explained. 

He shook his head, and handed it back. "Guns aren't my t'ing, chere. An' I can protect myself well 'nough, if I gotta." 

She argued with him for a brief moment, but the man was stubborn, and refused. "I want to know how you'd take care of a bunch of rebels if they rushed at you suddenly," she said. 

"I have ways." 

"And could you explain that in some less cryptic way?" 

"Let's jus' say, dere's power in me yet." 

She rolled her eyes. "You lead. You're the one who knows where we're going." 

"No better den you." He tugged on his horse's reins, and they crossed as quickly as they dared over the rubble, over scattered, wide-eyed corpses and pools of darkening blood. They could tell, by the remains on the ground, what type of place they traveled through; commercial areas were strewn with loose jewelry and food which had been sold in open-air markets, and tents had been beaten to the ground; the ancient buildings which had made up a wealthier district were nearly unpassable with the mammoth slabs of stone blocking each path. But everywhere there were people, some crying and yelling, others laughing and grabbing anything valuable up for themselves. So preoccupied they all were that Dupree and LeBeau went nearly ignored, except for cries for help, and the snickers of looters. 

It was not to last. "Hey, old man!" a young woman yelled, running toward him with a giant gun. "I sure like that horse o' yours!" 

"He's a beauty, ain't he?" the Witness said. 

The woman looked up at him, and noticed his eyes. She stumbled back, screaming curses, and effectively attracting the attention of just about everyone else. "The Evil One!" she shrieked. 

"I'd t'ink people like you would be happy t'see me," he scowled. 

She seemed to recover her cool, and even took a hand away from her gun to run it confidently through her buzzed hair. Partly due, of course, to the presence of her friends, all of them with multi-colored hair and pentagrams hanging from their necks. "What do you want?" she asked. 

"Actually, if you could tell me de way to Darkholme street? Dat would be great." He looked at her indifferently. 

Someone snickered. "It don't exist no more, old man," he shouted. 

"Pity. I was gonna give some good cash t'whoever could take me dere, but since it ain't around..." 

"I'm sure some of it's around," the girl said, her eyes lighting up. 

"Oh?" 

"We don't need your money," another woman spat. "We got all of Newer Haven for ourselves!" 

There were cheers, a few sniggers, and even some applauding. "Let's go, LeBeau. We can find it on our own," Dupree said, harshly. He held up his hand. 

"If dere be injuries in Max's family, we'll need to get dere quicker... wit' a guide." He turned his attention back to the first girl. "As I said, good cash f'r you. Better dan what you'll get scraping up after all your friends got all de good stuff." 

"Don't listen to him, Niki," someone said. 

"Shut up, Michael!" she turned, raising her gun in the air. "I'm old enough to deal..." 

"De faster dose who would help me are, de more money is in it if for dem," LeBeau commented. 

"How much?" Niki turned back. 

"Ten thousand if we find what I want. Five if I don't." 

Someone in the crowd whistled. "Hey, that's almost as much as Cindy makes in a day!" 

The second woman grabbed Niki's arm. "He's evil, Nikita..." 

"Go on stealing stuff," the girl said, shaking off the older woman's grasp. "I want to go with him." 

There were muffled complaints, but the girl ignored them. She motioned for LeBeau and Dupree to follow, which they did. The gang parted for them, forming a gauntlet of jeers. They all were young, some of them barely children, but some of them not too far off middle age. Most wore black, and carried weapons of various sorts: anything from crowbars to stolen plasma guns. 

But they stayed away from the Witness, hurling their vulgar comments like stones from a distance. No one dared to touch him, as though if they were so bold the man with the demon's eyes would kill them with a look. 

Nikita didn't take much heed to them, though Michael and Cindy were still yelling above the clamor for her to come back. She hoisted her gun up to her shoulder and carried it there, marching ahead with a sway to her hips characteristic of those who grew up on the tough streets. 

"What happened to the city?" Dupree ventured, as soon as they were out of the crowd's sight. 

"I dunno. Bunch of rebels came and blew the cathedral up, and then went to town on the big buildings. Everyone left but the gangs. The rebels said we could help them, if we want." 

"Help what?" 

"Demolish the city. I didn't want to, but everybody else got caught up in smashing stuff up and attacking the police. Our gang stayed out of it, mostly, but the Skulls and their allies all ran out at did some major damage." She eyed LeBeau warily. "Why are _you_ here, anyway?" 

"T'find someone," the Witness said. 

"So I figured... who?" 

"It's none of your business," Dupree said. She turned to LeBeau. "What's this about?" she mouthed. "That girl wouldn't have set a foot near you without her chums safe around her unless there was some sort of divine intervention... or something similar." 

He smirked. "As I said, dere's power in me left," he said. Nikita didn't notice. 

Farther into the city there were more and more people. As the girl had said, several gangs had joined or taken advantage of the rebel's chaos, fighting with the police force, but the rebels were easily identifiable among the riff-raff. They wore black, but their heads were covered with yellow and blue scarves, the colors of their revolution. They fought against what they deemed was an unfair government, though it was the most democratic of any which had been established in years. The girl lead them around the core of the battle, and though Dupree kept her weapon at the ready, they were given no trouble. Most didn't even notice them. 

"Why aren't they attacking us?" Dupree finally asked. 

"They have better things to do," Nikita scoffed. 

Dupree looked to the Witness, who smiled slightly. "I already told you..." 

"If you're doing all this, you're still one heck of a powerful man." 

"I _am_ de Witness." 

"And now you're making light of a dark situation." 

He frowned. "I've seen t'ings far, far worse dan dis, chere. Far worse." 

"I'd imagine," she whispered to herself. 

"This is Darkholme Street, but if you're looking for anyone, they'll be down in the south end," the girl announced. 

The street, like the rest of the city, was decimated. Antique houses stood half-destroyed like obstinate warriors. There were fewer bodies here, perhaps due in part to the small group of men who were carrying them away, towards what looked to be a church. There were no gangs here, no rebels. They had struck quickly, and passed on to greater things. There was hope, at least a glimmer of it, that the Munroes would be alive. 

The street was a long one, paved with mismatched stones. There was not a tree or bush standing, the grass upon what had once been lawns was nearly dead, and there were no flowers but those which budded upon weeds. There were housewives sitting upon the curb, faces in their hands, crying, as children tried to console them with naive words and tiny hands. 

"Painful," Dupree sighed. "I know people who've never gotten over loosing someone of something in the war. This is even worse. This is just directionless violence." The Witness said nothing. 

As much as they looked, they found no man or woman who looked anything like a Munroe; LeBeau had seen pictures of Max's uncle and aunt. "Any idea what the number of the house was?" 

"I only just found out it was on dis street." 

"Should have asked the number." 

"I don't t'ink it would matter... can't hardly see any numbers anyway." Which was true. They had faded away with the rest of the paint on the curb, and there were none left stenciled onto buildings. "Ask a neighbor," he prompted. 

"Why can't you, if you're so all-powerful, hmm?" But she went obediently to an older man under the remains of a beaten lamp post, and spoke with him for a moment with wild gestures and soft words. When she returned she only shook her head. "It was that house, down there on the corner." 

The house was rubble. 

"Dis family is plagued!" LeBeau hissed. "Where are dey?" 

"The hospital..." 

He pulled violently on his horse's reigns. Nikita started, stumbling back and then falling to the ground. She cursed and jumped up again, glaring at the Witness as she dusted herself off, and then squealing in complaint as the inky horse ran off in the direction of a church. 

"Hey! What about my money!" 

"LeBeau!" Dupree yelled after him, and spurred her own horse faster. 

She didn't catch up to him until he was in the makeshift hospital. He dismounted, walking through the crowds of people like a leper- they parted immediately as they saw him, some screeching, some gawking, but none daring to stand in his way. Their pathway closed as he went by, and it was considerably more difficult for Dupree to push and shove her way to the door. 

He was standing with a petrified nurse, who was scanning over sheets on a clipboard under his intense gaze. And they kept standing there, looking, as Dupree came to them, casting a vengeful look to the old man as she looked at the board. 

"Mundo... Mundy... Munera... Munger... Munhall..." 

"Hurry up," LeBeau growled. 

The woman slid a finger down the list as she read off the names, searching for one among hundreds. "Munk... Munoz... Munro... Munroe with an e!" 

She handed the clipboard to the Witness, as though to prove to him she had done her duty. But she did not touch him. 

"Only Warren Munroe? Where are de ot'ers in his family?" 

"I... I don't know, sir. This is a complete list..." 

He shoved the board back at her, and marched to the back of the building. His face was stone, no emotion in eye or color or gesture. He became an inhuman thing, more even than before. Dupree walked a few paces back from him. 

"Warren," was all he said, stopping by a dirty cot. The man on it was a corpse, flies on the body, his eyes unclosed. 

Dupree said nothing. She reached out with a gloved hand and let the man see no more hurtful daylight. Then she waited for the Witness to do something- to do anything. 

He sat down on the cot, folding his arms on his chest. And then he stayed there, for a very, very long time, as other corpses were moved out, half-dead bodies replaced them, surgery of all types was performed in the same room, the sick vomited blood and the healthy vomited bile. He sat there, amongst all this pain, all this confusion, and might have seemed pristinely clam to any who looked on, even the woman nearby who thought she knew him so well through her studies. He sat there, silent and unmoving, and looked unmoved. 

He'd been to this place before, though it hadn't been in this shack of a place, and it hadn't been Warren Munroe dead beside him. The man howling as a doctor informed him of his wife's demise, the woman frozen still as hands of pain pulled her into the abyss of death, the young soldier who wept for the first time in his life because he would never walk again; these he had all seen before, all devastatingly close to a heart he had assumed was nearly frozen. And, in the corner, as though circumstance would mock him: a beautiful young woman, her body ravaged by some mechanical enemy, but her face calm as her lover screamed. 

Oh yes, he'd been here before. And he'd wanted to take the same massive weapon which had killed the woman he had loved, and join her. 

"Sir?" 

Dupree was standing nearby, still waiting. Her eyes held compassion she did not know how to otherwise show. 

"If dere had been family..." 

"They may be at the morgue?" 

He shuddered. He felt horribly, horribly ancient. "Dere won't be any chance at findin' dem dere. Too many bodies. We c'n have someone try an' find dem for us, burry dem proper. But de most good we gonna do is by Warren." 

"And the children...?" 

He said nothing. He forced himself to his feet, staggering back, and might even have fallen if her hand had not been there in time. He gave no embarrassed smile or hurried apology. He simply walked ahead, this time at a considerably slower pace. He threw paper money at one of the doctors there, who looked at it with wild eyes. "Take care o' Warren Munroe. His body accounted for, an' taken' good care of." 

The doctor nodded, and the Witness went out to remount his horse. Which he needed more assistance from Dupree to do. 

"LeBeau, what's wrong with you?" she whispered, hoping after she had said it that he wouldn't take it as an insult. 

"Let's go," he said. 

"LeBeau..." 

"I don't like dat kinda place. Let's go." 

She watched him go, sadly, and then followed after him.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


It took them far longer to get out of the city than in. The rebels had begun to move onward to the east, and masses of people were quickly moving westward, or to the south and north. Mobs of them passed by, huge clusters of frightened men and women carrying their children and anything of great value upon their backs and under their arms, fewer on any vehicle or horse than before. They did not seem to notice in any detail the two travelers who watched them impatiently, waiting for the right moment to cross the rushing river of people. 

When they finally made it across, their horses were tired, and their route took them uphill, into a heavily wooded area where dusk had already settled. And then, of course, there was the matter of finding the children. 

They picked their way in the direction they had sent Max, hoping to catch a glimpse of a fire or hear the baby crying as a beacon for them. But they had no such luck. They rambled on, calling out, and listening above the clatter of the horses' hooves for any sound which may have signaled the presence of the children, or even of any hostile rover in the dark. 

It was Max who found them at last, Sara in his arms, his horse behind him, and the dog bounding forward to meet his master. He stood in front of them saying nothing, so that when they finally saw him, Dupree nearly shot him down in her surprise. 

"What are you doing so far out here?" she yelled. 

"Staying away from the crowds," LeBeau answered for him, calmly. Too weary to be otherwise. 

"Didn't have to go a mile out of the way." 

"Sir? My family?" The boy's eyes were hard. 

LeBeau shook his head, eyes turned away. "They were struck down. We found only your uncle. And he... is no longer with us." 

The boy nodded. He'd never met his uncle, possibly hadn't ever heard from him at all. He could hardly be expected to cry- he hadn't done that when his mother died. He'd just stood by her grave, his face expressionless, arms at his sides. Still, neither the Witness nor Dupree turned expected him to take the news so casually. 

He took the reigns of his horse, and pulled it in a different direction. "I've set up camp," he said.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


Dupree made something which she thought was good, but none of the others touched it. So, left to herself with too much food, she took her gear and a lantern and settled down farther away from them. 

Sara had a hard time getting to sleep, probably sensing the dark mood her brother and her protector were caught in. She cried, and screamed, and sniffed, and struggled, until finally Max gave up and sang her a song. LeBeau heard the first verse and stopped listening, though he didn't risk disturbing the girl again by ordering Max to stop. It was something about Ororo, and old Kenya. 

He settled near the fire and sighed, reaching into a deep pocket and pulling out the golden woman's glove he kept there, holding it. It brought him reassurance of sorts, a talisman not exactly of good luck, but more of an enigmatic peace. She'd died wearing this, and her death hadn't been peaceful. But it was as close to her as he could get now, and it somehow calmed him. 

The moon was full, and for the first time in months he took the time to look at it. At least there were some things which never changed. 

"Sir?" 

"Go to sleep, Max." He hadn't expected the boy to be awake. It was well past midnight. 

"A question, sir." 

"What?" 

"What is that?" 

"Nothing. Go back to sleep." 

He rolled back over, tossing a bit, until he sat up again a few minutes later. "Sir?" 

"It's just a glove. A normal ol' glove. Nothin' important." He stuffed it back into his pocket. 

The boy regarded him with sharp eyes, sitting up crosslegged in his sleeping bag. "Sir, you don't seem like the kind of person who would keep something unimportant with them." 

"You think you know me dat well?" 

"I've been with you for months now, sir." 

"But you still hate me, huh?" 

"I..." He looked down at Sara, sleeping beside him, and wrapped her blanket tighter around her. "I've grown up hating you. But you're not what I thought you'd be." 

"Good." His voice didn't betray his delight. 

"I still think you betrayed the X-Men. And you started the war that killed my father." 

"But..." 

"I have to be thankful to you for taking care of Sara and me. I can't hate you. But I still don't like you." The boy settled down again, closing his eyes, and stiffling a yawn. 

It was better than nothing, LeBeau decided. And at least the kid had the guts to tell him. "Goodnight, Max." 

He didn't get an answer.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


There were the others farther south, more family to take Max and Sara in. The ones who had cast LeBeau away from them. But the Witness was determined to get Max as far as he could before the bad weather other travelers they passed spoke of to Dupree. Storm clouds were coming up from the southeast, they said. They also brought news of portentous events in the west and in the north. The waters LeBeau had once fondly known as the Mississippi had risen farther up this last rainy season than it ever had before, and there were great earthquakes off to the western coast which had devastated what was left of the rebuilt Los Angeles. Dane had been overrun by snakes, someone had reported. There were blizzards, too, up to the northern territories, regardless of the time of year. 

Everyone was afraid. Psychics would have a good year in business with those who would believe what they said. The rich did what they could to keep their property safe, and the poor were left to their own devices. Dupree insisted that they take the time to buy "top-notch weapons" for the whole group. LeBeau himself declined, but paid generously for the others from his inexhaustible pocket. 

He was the only one who didn't seem too bothered by the news. He hurried their pace, but not so much to exhaust the horses or risk injuries. "Don't you believe them?" Dupree asked him. 

"I take evert'ing wit' a grain o' salt," he told her. 

"But still, all of them have said the same thing. Their stories have all matched up." 

"Must be de end o' de world." 

She sighed. After all her reading, all her discussion, and what time she had been given with the Witness, she didn't understand him. Which she told him. 

He regarded her darkly. "Perhaps because I'm from a different time," he suggested. "A different set of circumstances, a completely different world den de one you know." 

"Xavier didn't understand you either," she said. "He said so in his writings." 

He shrugged, attempting to look uneffected. "Maybe nobody ever has." 

Which ended the conversation. 

They reached the southern territories within two weeks, skirting the borders, searching for any place which stood unguarded. The Witness was an outlaw there, in a place where the people were more frightened and divided in the aftermath of the war than anyone else. Dupree had pleaded with LeBeau that he not go there, but instead wait somewhere while she took care of the children. But he was by far the most stubborn man she'd ever met, and told her it was his duty. It didn't matter how much she argued, he was going, and finally she gave up, grumbling. 

They found a relatively safe place to cross over, and entered into what had once been called the Old South. There were more towns and even cities here than the rest of the war-torn continent, loosely united with a military government which kept everything as well regulated as was possible. Which did not amount to much. Still, it would be impossible for the Witness to go into any guarded city, which was precisely what Max's living family resided in. That far, at least, he would have to allow Dupree to go. 

They made their camp under the stars at night, avoiding civilization as best they could. Yet another thing for Max to resent, though he said nothing. His feelings were conveyed only by looks. 

By this time, the baby was hardly a baby. She could walk rather well, and she could talk in rambling sentences. She didn't have her brother's grudge toward her guardian, and once or twice had dared to call him "Dada," stumbling toward him with open arms. Much to Max's horror. He pulled her back, chastising her, and then walked off with her away from LeBeau's sight. Still, the Witness was "allowed" to hold the girl at times, when neither Dupree nor Max's hands were free. And at those times, he felt a wistful happiness he hadn't known for years upon years. 

It dawned on him, finally, that his journey was nearly over. Once Max and Sara were safely dropped off at their new home- and soon from there join the XSE, LeBeau realized- the Witness would be free from any responsibility. There were no Munroes left who would accept his offer of help, except perhaps Jean; but she was in the military now, and, if she didn't die soon, would be tied up in her work for the rest of her life. He would go with Dupree, he supposed, to whatever hole in the ground the scholars she spoke of kept themselves. But this- tending to the Munroes- had been his reason for staying alive, for keeping his sanity. Recalling the events of the past for Dupree's companions was nothing he desired in any great degree to do, though perhaps for a short time it would offer some kind of fellowship with other people. And this _was_ something he wanted badly. 

LeBeau's only regret was that he hadn't befriended Max, though it certainly was no fault of his. Still, the child had been given little comfort from anyone after the death of his mother, and then his uncle, and both of these after his father. Then traveling with the Witness, with nearly the sole care of a baby, and living under harsh conditions for months. Perhaps Dupree's presence had helped a bit. A warrior for a child-soldier would be better company for him, even if they said little. 

Dupree ran off one night when camp was set to buy a few things from a caravan that had settled not too far from them, leaving LeBeau and the boy to their own silent business. The Witness had settled out on his bedroll, staring up at the stars, trying to make out constellations he had once been able to identify in an instant. The Little Dipper he knew, pointing ever toward Polaris, the north star. And possibly Orion, though it was cloudy, and he couldn't be sure. 

He glanced to the boy, who sat Indian-style, staring into the fire. "You know constellations?" 

Max looked startled, then turned half-way to face the old man. "My father showed me few, sir." 

"Your father was a good man, wasn't he? An' your mother." 

"Sir..." 

"Nevermind," he sighed. "I don't mean to upset you." 

The boy turned around completely now, the fire to his back, so that the Witness couldn't see his face. "My father _was_ a good man, sir. And my mother was the greatest. I wish Sara could have known them." 

LeBeau peered at him. Where had this outburst of friendliness come from? The boy had only this morning rudely ignored a question the man had asked him. "Your family'll take good care o' de both of you." 

"If they're there." 

"O' course dey'll be dere. No word's been said dat dere's any destruction to de south." 

"There wasn't any word of destruction to the east, either, sir." 

"We didn't meet so many travelers coming from dere." 

The boy went back to his thoughts for a moment, head bowed. "Sir?" 

"Yes?" 

"Why do you not believe something bad's not going to happen?" 

"You mean like all de other travelers and Dupree?" 

"Yes." 

He snorted, shaking his head. "I used to believe all dat kind o' thing, but not anymore. It's just bad weather, coming up from South America, or de Caribbean." 

"South America..." 

"You know what I mean. You've taken history classes." 

"But what about Dane, sir? Or the earthquakes?" 

"Dane's had snake problems since it got built. Dat's what dose people get for buildin' a city in de middle o' nowhere. And Los Angeles is smack on top o' a fault. It was probably de quakes dat got de snakes movin'." 

The boy looked back, and then finally lay down. "Good night, Max," the old man said. 

"Yes, sir." 

He shook his head. The boy had talked out of worry, had wanted reassurance. Reasonable- his family had a tendency to die on him. No wonder he was so fiercely protective of his sister. Still... 

Dupree returned, quietly, and moved around for a while until she finally settled down by the fire. Sara woke in the early morning, whimpering from a dream. It didn't matter. LeBeau didn't sleep a wink all night, anyway.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


The day arrived. 

It was sunny, though extremely cold, when Dupree woke up and badgered LeBeau into helping her make breakfast. A feeble attempt at keeping his mind occupied, and one which wasn't entirely successful. 

"Do your brooding later," she told him. 

"What fun would that be?" He met her steely gaze, but didn't fight it. Why bother? 

Max took far too long getting up. Throughout their travels he had normally been the first to arise, often even before the clockwork Dupree. But today he hadn't even stretched by the time the adults were half finished with their food. 

"It's gonna get cold, pup," the Witness yelled over to him. 

"Yes, sir. I'm coming." The boy sat on a rock by the fire and ate little. 

He also seemed to have quite a bit of packing to do, spending a great deal more time getting ready than he ever had. The old man might have wanted to believe the boy would miss him, but knew Max was probably only nervous about meeting his next guardians. 

But it allowed the Witness more time with Sara, whom he played with until her brother had finally finished. He gave her a kiss on the forehead, ignoring Max's look, and then handed her over to him. "You take good care of her now," he said. 

"Of course, sir." 

"And of yourself." 

"I will, sir." 

LeBeau held his hand out, tentatively, and the boy shook it, just as reluctant. And then he mounted his horse, guiding it away, in the direction Dupree had gone moments before, waving and calling out things she hoped might cheer him up. No such luck. 

LeBeau was settled nicely in an area not too far from the city Dupree and the children were continuing to. The woman "accidentally" left one of her plasma guns by the fire, which wasn't found until she had moved on. There was plenty of food for him, and she wouldn't be gone long. 

He spent the day pouring over maps, keeping his mind off of it, and finding the best routes to wherever it was that her people were. They lived to the far north, she had said, in Majcomb City. Which meant they would have to pass the territory border again, retracting their steps to Newer Haven, and then moving even farther up from there. A good bit of traveling, and hard, too. It would get colder as time went on, and they might have to resort to staying in smaller inns. 

He didn't sleep well, but the exhaustion from the previous night caught up to him and refreshed him somewhat. There was nothing much to do, except explore the area, which he wasn't curious enough to do. So at last he set himself to looking through Dupree's books, volumes and notes she had always kept in her saddlebags, and which she had left behind with some of her extra things. 

She'd been writing about him, he saw, and the children. A journal of sorts. He hadn't ever seen her in the act, but he hadn't really paid much attention to her, either. He skimmed through them, all little notes she had jotted down about this and that. _"Our hopes for handing the children over to Warren Munroe were dashed, when we discovered that rebel forces had destroyed much of Newer Haven and killed him in the process... still, there is more family to the south, and while I grieve for them, I will be continue experiencing the childhood of a hero from the past. I feel as though it is I who have traveled in time, and not him, as he will someday when he has grown up._

_"The Witness is not what I had expected. He is not Gambit, he is not Remy LeBeau, he is not an X-Man. He is simply a man who desperately seeks to forget his past, but can't. The world won't let him. He isn't the cunning charmer Xavier wrote of, nor is he the deceitful marauder Sinister made him out to be. He is completely, entirely human, even if he has been cursed with an immortal's life, and bears little resemblance to his former self, which he himself claims is dead. And in that, I believe him."_

There was more written there, speculations on his power, on his history, on his personality. And then on the history of mutantkind, current events, her theories and dreams. All of it was interspersed with quotes from this author and that, some of them seemingly random, and some of them which captured her meaning perfectly. He spent the day reading it, slept, and spent yet another day pouring through it. She hadn't started only with their meeting, but from the beginning of her search for the Witness, all of it detailed and animated with her thoughts. If the world had been different, she might have been a great author. But in these times, books had as much value as the dirt on the city streets. 

He looked through the other volumes as well. One, he saw, was in Latin, and seemed so old it may have pre-dated the war. _Scriptura Sancta,_ it said on the cover. After thumbing through it, he gave up. Catholic masses in his childhood were long gone from his memory; not a word in the text bore any meaning for him now. All the same, he wondered if they might explain any of what was happening. And he questioned if Dupree even could read it. All the schools which might have taught the language were gone now. At least on this continent. 

The other wasn't quite so old, and had been marked by pen and nearly unreadable scribbling on every other page. _The Complete History of Homo Superior,_ he read. He flipped through it a while, catching names he knew all too well and several he'd never heard of. There were a few colored pictures on the pages, as well. Some attempted to depict figures of history LeBeau had known, and the failure to even capture the likeness of some of them was laughable. He stumbled upon a picture of himself, or at least, of Gambit. It seemed nice enough, though not altogether accurate. All the same, he shivered and closed the book, setting it aside. 

He went on with preparing himself something for dinner, not picking up the sound of horses walking near- not hooves, on this soft ground, but the clatter of their bits and reigns, and their decisive snorts- until after his dog sat up, ears high, growling. 

LeBeau quickly turned, reaching down to let the dog loose from its chain. It didn't move, except for a sideways step towards its master. 

Soldiers. Not too many of them, and all on horseback. They did not notice him as they marched by, not being close enough to his camp to see anything- the fire was out now, as it was mid afternoon, and hot. He may have continued being unnoticed, if the dog hadn't barked. 

They looked immediately to the sound, one of them calling out, "Halt!" and the other, telepathically, _Stay where you are!_

He cursed under his breath, grabbing Dupree's bags and her gun, and swinging himself up onto his horse. He spurred the horse off into another direction, not really caring where exactly he was going, but instead how fast and far he could outride the soldiers. 

They came after him, of course, hooves thudding through the trees. The dog was rushing with him, snarling and panting, but keeping up. They chased him for miles upon heart-pounding miles, giving up at last on their calls for him to halt, and finally charging after him with weapons held high. 

And one of them shot, a bullet digging a blistering path over LeBeau's shoulder. He cried out, his hand involuntarily reaching back to clutch at the wound, and nearly fell, regaining composure and balance only a moment before the horse slid on a patch of mud, and he found himself tumbling into the trees as more gunshots rang out and the horse was hit. 

He ran further, ignoring the blistering pain in his shoulder and in his ribs, and vaulted behind the thickest bushes he could find. The dog ran after him, and they crouched down together to wait. 

The horse was still screaming, panicked. It had likely broken a leg, and couldn't run away. He heard them kill it, mercifully, and then rush toward him, still calling out for him to stop. 

They would find him, eventually. There was no better place to hide, and he realized suddenly that the telepath among them would eventually pinpoint him, anyway. He stared down at Dupree's gun, knowing his only route for escape, and not liking the thought of it one bit. 

LeBeau fumbled with it, finding the safety and then aiming tentatively at the leader of the group. He was riding forward, his eyes scanning through the trees. And then he fell, shot in the shoulder, while the other two stumbled back. 

The Witness dealt with the telepath similarly, hoping he could knock the man out as well, but only managing to get him down. The soldier reached for her gun, her eyes blazing green, and found herself without a hand. Their horses started, running off in three entirely different directions, and one of those toward LeBeau. He tried to grab the reigns and failed, too slow and too tired. But he took off toward what he knew was the south, as fast as he could, zig-zagging his way through the trees and hoping desperately that the group wouldn't come after him. 

He didn't know how far he had gone by the time he had to stop. Much shorter a distance than his legs and lungs felt he'd traveled, he knew. And he also knew that he was going to pay for it in aching days to come. 

Still, he was relatively safe for the time being, thank every Saint above which had worked their miracles for him. He took a moment to rip some of his shirt off and wrap it around his wound, which, though painful, wasn't too deep. He patted the dog on its head with his good arm, grateful for a companion, and moved back toward what he hoped would be left of his camp, judging direction by the position of the burning sun in the sky. 

It took a great deal of searching, all of it cautious and silent, to find the place again. He didn't dare go back near the body of his horse, and he wouldn't either dare to stay long by the camp, so sure he was that the soldiers would make their way back there, or at least pass through it on the way to somewhere reinforcements could be found. Their kind was strong, set in their ways, and often brutal in their discipline; the kind of people Max would someday be like. And they would hunt an outlaw such as LeBeau down until they'd strung him up or thrown him into some rotten cell, to starve until an unfair trial was assembled and a biased judge called for an execution. 

But he desperately needed something to clean up his shoulder before infection could set in. He distrusted the water in streams he passed; too much pollution from the cities they rushed through to even dare take a drink. It was better to take one's chances with the air. 

But the camp had been burned. He hadn't put out the fire in his haste, and it had only been the moisture of the ground which had stopped it from catching on to the rest of the woods. There wasn't anything there he could get to of any use, certainly no food or water. Which meant he was going to have to find someplace to buy those things. 

Cursing to himself, he struggled away towards the south, following the path Dupree and the children had used. There were nomads aplenty on and off the roads, caravans of homeless who had nothing better to do than roam, employment being scarce. They were eager to take money from anyone, and by late evening he had been fed well, his shoulder had been treated with some newer variety of herbal paste, and he was able to buy a horse. It wasn't nearly as large or strong as his first, but it was better than walking. 

He hoovered by the road he knew Dupree would come back on, watching for her. It took two more days before he finally caught a glimpse of the woman, which he spent doing little more than sleeping, and eating food bought from the wanderers. When he finally did see her, she was frowning, her horse plodding forward with its head down. He flagged her down and led her off the road into the woods. 

"Took you long enough." 

"The guards wouldn't let us in for two days. They said they were 'checking over legal records,' or somesuch. Why they needed to do that for two kids is beyond me. Then we couldn't find the place, and then the guards wouldn't let me leave without checking me out all over again... where's your horse?" Her eyes set on the new mare as they approached it. "And why are you out here, anyway? The camp was a long ways up the road." 

"Had some trouble wit' some wanderin' soldiers." 

"You mean..." 

"Dey know I'm here." 

She stared at him, wide-eyed. 

"Dey killed my horse! I coulda skinned 'em all alive. I liked dat horse..." 

"They got your arm, too." 

He pulled his jacket down over the bandage. "It don't hurt any. I got it fixed up." 

"Do you want me to look at it? They taught me a few things back in the military." 

"Nah. Don' bother." He waved her away with his other arm. "I get gangrene, I'll let you look." 

She shook her head. "In case you were wondering, the kids are fine." 

"I was avoiding dat topic." He looked away. 

"I know. The family seems nice enough." 

"We should get goin'. We've got a rough ride ahead o' us." 

"That we do." She watched resignedly as he gathered up his things and mounted his horse, considering him. 

"Your books are gone," he said, noticing her look. "Got burned." 

She sighed wearily, closing her eyes. "I wouldn'ta left 'em if I had known dey would get burned... Dupree?" 

"I'm fine. Better I loose them than the Witness." 

"But dey had..." 

"I'm fine," she repeated, and nodded toward the north. "As you said, we'd better get a move on." 

They started off, quietly, staying away from the road, uneasy with the apprehension of soldiers passing by. And they met several, most of which they were able to avoid by standingly silently behind trees, and the occasional few Dupree shot down to make way- never killing them, but giving herself and the Witness time to pass well away from the area. 

"They _are_ soldiers, after all. Even if they're oppressive tyrants." 

"Loyalty t'your own kind?" 

"That could be taken either of two ways..." 

"De better way." 

She nodded. 

He looked away, into the distance ahead of them, and said nothing for quite some time, until she interrupted him from his reverie. 

"Penny for your thoughts?" 

"Ooh, a penny. Dat's worth a lot." She fixed him with a frigid stare. He sighed. "Just thinkin' 'bout de kids." 

"They'll be fine." 

"I know. He'll grow up t'be a skeptical, inflexible, tatooed soldier who'll save de world a few times over, and Sara will end up with much de same life. Still..." 

She smiled. "You know they'll be fine. And what's more, you've got a future with my friends and me. No more pointless journeying for you, LeBeau." 

He shook his head grimly, grey hair falling into his eyes. "Life's a journey. Sometimes objectiveless, sometimes so clear you can see for miles. I just ain't used to it being so clear." 

"Poetic." 

"Lived around particularly talkative people much o' my life." 

She nodded absently, thoughts drifting off to the past. 

And they went on, silent yet again, for miles upon miles, toward the North, and the future.   
  
  
* * *   
  
  


A man, dressed entirely in black, as he traversed through a decaying land; his transport a horse the color of oak, with dull, wearied eyes. Behind them, another dark creature, this a massive coal dog, which followed its master with undying devotion. And still behind that a steady bay, upon which rode a tall woman armed to the teeth. 

And far before them, at the very place they traveled to, a small group awaited the arrival of one of their own, and one from their legends.   
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

_No foreign sky protected me,  
No stranger's wing shielded my face  
I stand as witness to the common lot,  
Survivor of that time, that place.  
  
  
-Anna Akhmatova  
Requiem  
_   
  
  


   [1]: mailto:BelaLeBeau@aol.com



End file.
